


Interlude: The Secret from the Sprig

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Series: The Bones AU [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, prompt 2: Lost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21816862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: Enjolras is content watching his friends participate in the holiday festivities. Being actively involved in them is another story, and with Eponine, no less.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Series: The Bones AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1522889
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: Enjonine Exchange 2019





	Interlude: The Secret from the Sprig

“Did you ask her yet?”

Enjolras looks up the humerus he was examining, his brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, a bit of a smile on his face. “Agent Thenardier. Did you invite her to the Christmas party next week?”

“I believe she received her own invitation, due to her involvement here.” He goes back to studying the bones. “She doesn’t need me to invite her to this societal convention brought on by a myth, given that fact.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “As your date. Your plus one.”

“As it’s been noted in the past, there’s nothing that states it’s an obligation for anyone to have anyone to accompany them, which is why I don’t involve myself in what many deem to be a necessity.” He glances up to see Courfeyrac heave an exasperated sigh.

“You lack any sense of romance.”

“I have no interest in what’s merely a chem—”

“Don’t explain it that way,” Courfeyrac says. “I get where you’re coming from, but you don’t seem to have a fun bone in your body, do you? Or a romantic one, for that matter.”

“There’s no such thing.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head again with a sigh. “I give up.”

* * *

The days pass and the party just happens to line up with the close on a case. The lab of the Lamarquian Institute has been transformed into a ballroom of sorts, or if Enjolras was searching for a fairly modern term, “dance hall” would be more appropriate term, he thinks. Garland and strings of lights are wrapped around the railings on the stairs, platform, and catwalks. A fake but conservatively decorated fir sits in front of the platform near the lab’s main entrance.

Many of his colleagues are dressed in suits and ties or formal gowns, holding onto champagne glasses. There’s the familiar tunes of the season playing in the background. There’s gourmet catered food spread across a few tables, as well as a punch bowl he’s certain someone has already spiked and bottles of champagne and wine.

Overall, everyone appears to be enjoying themselves.

But somehow, he finds himself in one of the empty corners of the lab, swirling the remainder of champagne in his glass. He’s content this way, though, seeing his friends and coworkers partaking in the evening’s festivities.

It takes a light tap on the shoulder for him to notice Eponine standing next to him.

“Observing from afar?” she asks, holding her own champagne glass.

“A personal choice,” he says.

“I figured as much.” She takes a look around the room. “All is well?”

“If you mean nothing chaotic has happened as yet, then, yes,” Enjolras replies, taking a sip of champagne. “To save yourself from embarrassment later, I would advise you to stay away from the punch; someone’s already put vodka or something of a similar nature in it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says with a nod. “Though I think Joly is near to repeating last year’s incident.”

He looks towards where Eponine points, to see Joly up on one of the catwalks near a set of stairs, as if contemplating sliding down on the railing. Last year, such a thing resulted in nearly tipping over the tree and broke one of the institute’s over-hanging lamps. However, Musichetta seems to be putting herself in the way from chancing the incident again. There’s no guarantees he won’t try again when her back is turned, if Bossuet doesn’t attempt it first.

The two of them finish up their glasses and take a short walk around the lab, observing how the others take part in the festivities. Prouvaire and Feuilly are side-by-side at the small decorate-your-own Christmas cookie station. Cosette and Combeferre appear to be having quite an intense discuss on psychology, while Marius and Courfeyrac stand by the tree, engaging in a conversation Enjolras can’t pick up on.

Enjolras and Eponine pause underneath one of the catwalks.

“So, what are your plans for the holidays? Since there’s no case to work on?” Eponine asks.

“I’ll probably be here, spend the time working of identifying some of the bones in Limbo,” he replies. “It’s what I always do, if I’m not traveling elsewhere to work with ancient remains and artifacts.”

“Nothing with Annie or Charlie?”

“Charlie’s got his family, and while Annie invited me to spend the holidays with her—”

Prouvaire’s excited voice rings through the air. “Hey, Thenardier and Enjolras are under the mistletoe!”

_What mistle—?_

Enjolras looks up, and sure enough, there’s the sprig dangling from one of the rails of the catwalk.

He then turns his focus on Eponine, who has traces of red in her cheeks, and there’s a good chance he does, too. He glances with a glare toward Courfeyrac, who has a smug grin on his face. His friend gestures with his hand, as if encouraging him. Combeferre, meanwhile, shrugs, as if there’s nothing he can do.

“I’m not kissing Enjolras; we’re partners, it’s unprofessional,” Eponine says, flustered.

Enjolras nods. “We’re in agreement on—”

“You know the rules!” Courfeyrac says.

“Where’s your spirit?” Prouvaire adds.

By now, the attention of everyone else at the party is drawn to him and Eponine. And there’s no backing out regardless of how ridiculous the concept is.

He looks back to Eponine, who in the midst of this can’t meet his gaze.

“I guess there’s no getting out of this,” she murmurs, shrugging her shoulder.

“No, I don’t think there is,” Enjolras replies.

They both take a deep breath, and Enjolras gives her a quick peck on the lips. 

“That doesn’t count!” shouts Prouvaire.

“You two can do better than that!” encourages Joly. Feuilly next to him holds a camera pointed in their direction, a development that surprises Enjolras.

Enjolras is just about to make another argument when he feels Eponine’s hands brush against his cheeks and she pulls him close. Her eyes are closed when her lips capture his, and at first, he’s too shocked to respond. But a few seconds pass, and he finds himself drawn in. Too suddenly, he recalls a scene during their first case, a few years ago now, both of them standing just as close in the rain outside the Corinth after perhaps a little too much alcohol, the warmth despite the chill in the air, and how he almost felt he was drowning…

And then it’s over.

She takes a step back, opening her eyes, breathless, and he’s at a loss for words.

There’s a blend of stunned and uncomfortable faces in his periphery, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His focus is on her, and only her, inwardly cursing that very night in the rain, which instead of walking home with her, he took a cab back to his place alone.

Three words, so commonly said, but he argues against them with what science has placed within his mind. And yet, there were no other words that could accurately describe what he wanted to say.

“I…I think I’m going to grab some punch…” she says, then turns and walks away.

Too similar to before, only the roles reversed.

He watches her go, and he takes a few steps in her direction, only to pause, not knowing how to return back to how they were only a few minutes ago as partners, as friends.

Combeferre approaches him, some confusion and concern mixed in his features.

“You all right?” he asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

His eyes flicker to his friend, then back to Eponine. “I…I think I had a little too much champagne…I’m going to head home.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras knows Combeferre thinks something otherwise, but won’t say it. “I’ll grab my car, then, save you from a cab.”

Enjolras shakes his head, giving him a weak smile. “No, no, you enjoy the night. I’m fine grabbing a cab.”

“Alright then,” he replies, brushing Enjolras’ arm. “Call me when you’re home.”

“I will.”

Enjolras then turns and walks toward the lab’s main door, casting a glance at Eponine, who is sitting down at one of the tables, swirling some punch in a clear plastic glass. Then he leaves.

Maybe tomorrow they can pretend all over again that what happened never happened.


End file.
